


Things You Said After It Was Over

by a_steady_wish



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Pre-X-Files Revival, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_steady_wish/pseuds/a_steady_wish
Summary: Scully returns to the Unremarkable House in search of something she values. It's a sad one, folks.





	Things You Said After It Was Over

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "Things You Said After It Was Over" and originally posted on Tumblr.

It’s an eerie sensation, coming back into a home that you once inhabited, a place that is no longer yours. You shake the rain off your hair, your shoulders as you knock on the door – I’m knocking on the door, you think grimly; I’ve walked through this door many times but never knocked on it – and wait for him to answer.

By the time he gets to the door, a couple of minutes later, the wind has changed and is now spraying rain onto the porch and against your back. You didn’t bring an umbrella; it wasn’t raining an hour ago.

“Mulder,” you say sadly, trying to sound empathetic.

He looks awful: tired, shaggy, unkempt. He might have just rolled out of bed, although it’s dinner time. You don’t wonder anymore what he does all day; you gave up trying to mother him for Lent last year, and never looked back. He’s bare-chested, and you realize that it’s been at least a month since you’ve seen his naked chest. At least five since you’ve made love with him. You had almost forgotten the freckle in the midst of his chest hair that you used to kiss while you laid on him, afterwards.

Wordlessly, he steps back and lets you walk in. You don’t want to walk in – you moved out seventeen days ago, and you don’t want to be here now, except you’ve left him three messages this week asking him for a favor and he hasn’t returned your calls. You walk in, noticing that he backs all the way up so you’re not in each other’s personal space. It’s been a long, long time since you worried about invading each other’s space. Maybe since the first day you met.

“Did you get my messages?”

“I don’t know, Scully. I get a lot of messages.”

He’s going to make this difficult, then. You don’t blame him: you broke his heart.

“There’s a picture… of William. On the bookshelf. I would like to have it.”

You wait. He watches you carefully. One beat, two, three. He’s waiting for you to back down; you will not.

“It’s mine,” he finally speaks. “You left it here. In my house. I’m keeping it.”

“I can make you a copy,” you offer, not saying the other things that are running through your mind: You weren’t even there when that picture was taken, Mulder; You only knew William for three days, Mulder; You’re only doing this to hurt me, Mulder. Those words you keep to yourself. They won’t help, and you just want the picture.

“I want the original back,” he demands, and turns to get it for you. “You make yourself a copy.”

The picture is of William at five months old, sitting in his high chair. He had just had his first taste of rice cereal and was grinning ear to ear; when you look at it you can hear the sweet baby squeal emanating from his dainty little vocal chords. You spent many, many hours hunched over William’s high chair, working with him on eating solids; Mulder spent zero.

“Fine,” you say, taking it from his hand. His fingers brush against yours. His hand is shaking.

“And I want it back within two weeks,” he adds. His body is moving towards the door now, back out to the porch, taking you downstream in his current.

Back outside, you tuck the framed picture into your coat as the rain wallops you from three sides. You dread the drive back into the city, but you are glad to not be staying here anymore. You miss the Mulder you once knew, desperately, but this person? This is someone you don’t really know at all.

“Thank you,” you begin, but he’s already closing the door; it makes a resounding click only inches from your face. A second click lets you know he’s turned the lock inside.

The precious photo is pressed against your belly, safe from the storm, as you pull your hood up and run back to safety.


End file.
